The gates were already visible from the end of the drive—wrought iron dragons with glowing amber eyes, wings spread wide enough to make several peacocks reconsider their life choices. Above them, carved pumpkins drifted in lazy circles, each one flickering with a different coloured flame. The gravel path had been spelled to crunch dramatically underfoot. Because of course it had.

The Manor itself loomed behind it all like a particularly smug aristocrat who knew exactly how good it looked in candlelight. Every window glowed. Every hedge had been sculpted into something that would terrify a medieval peasant. Somewhere in the distance, a ghostly string quartet was murdering a classical piece with tremendous enthusiasm.

I've seen weddings with less effort put into them. And less money. And fewer floating pumpkins.

The heavy oak doors swung open before anyone could touch the knocker—because Draco Malfoy did not wait for people to arrive. He staged their arrival.